instantly curious.
Why? Where is she going? Given the direction, she could very well be headed home, but my gut doesn’t agree, urging me to follow her.
I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t.
And yet I do.
Evanesce my way behind her so as not to be seen, or heard for that matter.
We tread right through Silver Sanctuary and the Moonstone Woodlands, distant drums and howls echoing in the distance. Idly, I wonder what exactly the Natives are celebrating, but the thought passes as quickly as it came when the sign for Lost Lake comes into view.
Tinksley slows her pace then, ducking beneath low hanging branches as she follows the path down to the water. I follow suit, making sure to keep a safe ways behind and my footwork light. The last thing I need is for a twig to snap, alerting her of my presence. I don’t want her to see me.
Just ensuring the plot is still rolling along as it should—for the council’s sake.
At least that’s what I tell myself.
They’ll absolutely have questions after what happened at the gala, especially when some of them witnessed me going after her when Pan took his leave. Which means I’ll need answers to provide, and if I can express with certainty that we’re still on track, perhaps they might not press—or even mention—my manic rush to get to her.
“Oh, Peterrr,” Tinksley sings, skittering up the large trees upholding his home. “Peter, come down. I brought your favorite.”
Instead of following her any further, I take refuge behind the greatest trunk just before the clearing, and wait to see where this goes. Nothing but silence greets us both, though, prompting Tinksley to crane her head back, hand pressed to her forehead.
“Peter? You there?” she tries again.
Said silence stretches and stretches until, suddenly, Peter drops down from above, landing mere inches from her petit form...
♫ Little Do You Know - Alex & Sierra ♫
“Hey, T,” Peter says, expression blank.
It’s so blank I can’t decipher it.
And don’t even get me started on his demeanor.
“I brought your favorite,” I tell him cheerfully, holding up the plain white box from the bakery. The scent of vanilla all but oozes out from within. They smell delicious and I’m hoping they’ll turn this awkwardness around for the better.
A small, almost forced smile flicks across his face as he runs a hand through his caramel mane. “Thanks, but...I’m not hungry.”
“Well, technically, it’s not food.”
“I know. Stomach’s a tad messed up, though, so I’ll pass. All that sugar is only bound to make it worse.”
My face falls, and I don’t even try to hide it. We haven’t seen each other in days, since the night of the ball, and here he is rejecting my offering.
An offering meant to say, “I forgive you for ditching me.”
Why do you bother?
There goes my subconscious again, and again, it’s not wrong. Why do I bother? His behavior has only gotten progressively worse over the last several weeks. Weirder, if you will. With each day that passes, he pulls more and more away, and I don’t know what to do about it.
How to fix it.
Why do you bother?
The question echoes in my mind a second time, arising this urge to voice it aloud. To ask him directly. To ask him what I’ve done, or perhaps haven’t done. To ask him if he even loves me, if he ever truly loved me.
I almost do, all the words begging to be spilled bubbling on the tip of my tongue.
But I don’t.
“Oh, okay,” I say instead, allowing the full extent of my disappointment to shine through.
Peter sighs, more deeply than necessary, almost pitifully, and wraps me in his arms. Face pressed to his firm chest, I fight back the tears welling in my eyes, the box of cupcakes slipping from my grip to our feet.
I won’t cry in front of him. I refuse to.
“I’ll have one later, I promise. Just need my stomach to settle first. Thank you for bringing them,” he mumbles into my hair, squeezing me tighter.
“No problem.”
“I’m serious, T.” He eases back, reaching up to cup my face. Those chocolatey irises I love so much sear into me, holding my stare. “Thank you, I can’t wait to devour them.”
I’m just about to respond, a simple “you’re welcome,” when he swoops in and sets his lips on mine.
Warm, familiar, home, all the emotions I usually feel, but the spark that always accompanies them, the one that sets me on fire for him, is nowhere to be found.
No. Where.
It’s startling, to say